


I Slithered Here From Lockdown Just to Sit Outside Your Door

by Nightlightinthedark



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, From Eden by Hozier, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oneshot, Quarantine, a double entendre because I couldn’t help myself, after the phonecall, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightlightinthedark/pseuds/Nightlightinthedark
Summary: Super short and sweet and the first thing I imagined following the adorable “Lockdown” bonus Mr. Gaiman blessed us with.(Hozier inspired, obviously. :>)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	I Slithered Here From Lockdown Just to Sit Outside Your Door

“I’m not miserable.”

_Right; of course you’re not_ , Crowley thought as he stared vacantly at a grey wall and slouched in his chair. He’d just hung up the phone after chatting with Aziraphale, or maybe it had been hours (who could tell lately—time was more fluid than usual during this awful lockdown business), and caught himself engaging in the annoying habit of mulling over each little thing the angel had said. _Everyone’s miserable, I’m miserable, and alone but Aziraphale’s fine. More than fine, baking cakes and pastries and sending hooligans away with sticky buns._

Crowley let out an involuntary puff of air at this unintentional double entendre. _He could send me away with sticky buns…_

_No, no, no, shut it!_ Crowley stood from his chair and paced the room to distract himself from an inevitable, long-trod, but doomed train of thought. The kind that always led to him picturing Aziraphale in, eh, less than angelic, (but truly sublime) ways. He sighed.

That was the thing about Aziraphale, though, wasn’t it? That was a bit of what made him himself—that damned innocence. He wouldn’t catch a double entendre if it smacked him in the face. And giving would-be thieves pastry… who else would do that? That unfaltering, blinding, shining-white idealism. Infuriating. Frustrating. Impossibly soft. The yin to Crowley’s yang.

_Fuck_. It’s what Crowley loved about him. Looking at Aziraphale was a bit like gazing at an inverted reflection of himself; he was everything Crowley wasn’t, and Satan damn it, he loved Aziraphale for it. Pastries and tartan and the smell of moth-eaten books and just-so waistcoats and walking like an invisible string held him from the top of his glowing halo hair to his worn oxfords. _So fucking wholesome_.

And that irritating penchant for rule following. He’d said he didn’t want Crowley over; it’d be “breaking the rules.” Made it clear. And as greatly as Aziraphale wanted to abide by rules, Crowley wanted to break them. Smash them. Tell them where they could shove their ‘6-foot,’ social distancing guidelines. But he’d be a gentleman. Like he always was when it came to the Angel. He’d stay home and stare at the wall for another month or two, continue pacing back and forth as he was now, maybe think of some new tortures to encourage his plants to grow new buds, or sleep it off til July as he’d said he might. And even as he knew this, knew what his options were, he hated himself for it. Dreadful options.

_But what if…_ What if he just showed up. Thought of a good excuse. “Sorry to break protocol, Angel, but this is urgent,” Crowley vaguely pantomimed, picturing himself standing outside Aziraphale’s door and holding a bottle of wine. But what could be important enough to justify breaking the all-important rules?

_Nah. Angel’d see right through it_. To what was behind. And what was behind was gooey and scared and humiliating. Crowley stopped pacing for a moment, considered his feelings, and headed straight for the liquor cabinet.

_Maybe he’ll call_. The implication had been pretty blatant—“If I don’t think of anything to do within the next two days,” Crowley’d said _(hint hint—call me again and save me from myself)_. Pouring an amber glass, Crowley decided this was the best plan of action. Sit and wait to see if Aziraphale called. If not, sleepy time. So Crowley sauntered glumly to his couch, glass in hand, and plopped down for the long wait.

———————————

Not two minutes later, Crowley startled as the phone rang from the study. Without hesitating, he willed it from the other room into his hand.

“What?”

The timid voice sent Crowley’s unnecessary heart pounding. “Umm… I was wondering… this is Aziraphale, by the way…”

Crowley wondered if the angel could hear his eye roll through the line. “I know, Aziraphale. What?”

“Well… it might be out of the question, and I shouldn’t ask, but…”

“Get to the point, you know you can ask me anything.” _Oof. Too revealing, that_.

“Alright, yes, well… Could you perhaps slither on over…”

Crowley could feel his face reddening.

“...and sit outside my door?”

His yellow eyes widened. “Wha— sit outside your door?”

There was a hard swallow. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well… I don’t want to break the rules… but I lied a bit, earlier. I _am_ miserable. And I could use some company. Your company. If you sit outside, and I sit near the door inside, we could talk,” Aziraphale’s voice grew a bit strained, “and now it all sounds utterly ridiculous. I’m sorry I called.”

Crowley beamed and pressed his lips together to stifle the smile he was sure Aziraphale would be able to hear.

“Angel.” A chuckle.

“Yes?”

“Of course I’ll come over and sit outside. I’d come over and sit wherever you want. I—I’d slither all the way from Eden just to sit outside your door, Aziraphale.”

Crowley couldn’t see it, but tears welled up in Aziraphale’s eyes. What he heard was a small sniffle. “Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale dabbed his eyes with the back of a finger, and was about to make Crowley promise to come soon, when he heard a knock at the door. He walked over to it.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Angel.”

_It’s me and I’m yours_. _I’ve always been yours._

Crowley settled into a spot on the ground, with a glass and a bottle of wine in hand, while Aziraphale pulled a chair up near the other side of the door.

A lone, mask-wearing passerby on the way to a drugstore noticed the strange scene—the lanky, well-dressed, red-haired man sitting on the ground, drinking and leaning against the bookshop door, talking (to himself?). And when he walked home the same way to see if the strange man was still there (we’re all a bit bored nowadays, aren’t we?), he noted that the man was gone, and, strangest thing, could’ve sworn he _felt love_ hanging in the air like the scent of a dark chocolate cake as he walked past.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you enjoyed! Stay safe and healthy.


End file.
